OQ Prompt Party 2017
by QuillerQueen
Summary: A series of one-shots written for the OQ Prompt Party.
1. Something Borrowed

_Prompt 117: Canon divergent oneshot where Robin crashes Regina's wedding hoping to steal some jewels and fancy plates but ends up stealing her instead._

* * *

Robin's fairly new to the trade. Granted, he's always had an affinity for stealth as well as the gift of deft fingers and light feet, performing sleights of hand from an early age-but earning a living and a reputation as a thief? That's a different matter altogether. The more of a name he makes, the more the royal guard will be after him.

Doesn't it make sense, then, to risk one great heist at the very start of his career?

What he lacks in experience he'll make up for in daring, and cunning, and a bit of good fortune. Should Lady Luck favour him, he'll have enough riches by the end of the night to secure an entire future for himself.

And the royals, with their blasted pride under the guise of grand gestures, only have themselves to blame.

* * *

Robin pushes through crowds of peasants lining the streets all the way to the cobblestoned square. He slips past children awestruck by the spectacle soon to come; passes merchants basking in this faint reflection of royal riches and courtly ceremony; ducks surly serfs, the poor and the lowly, who've come for an escape into the world of fancy but mostly just to fill an empty belly at the lavish feast ahead. He presses forth, all the way to the podium in front of the church the newlyweds will ascend to graciously greet the commonfolk. He elbows his way to the very front, then shimmies unnoticed along the edge all the way to the back, where a palace opens onto the square.

This is where the highest nobility make the last preparations for the wedding, and where they will share meat and mead afterwards (they're not eating outdoors with the rabble after all, that would be beneath them!).

It's well guarded, with most restricted access, and it takes time and effort to get past the guards but Robin manages to do so unnoticed despite several close calls.

His garb is nondescript enough to blend in with the servants, though obviously not the liveried ones. No matter-he's going to grab some fancy plates from the vast selections still being carried out of the kitchens, along with some fine cutlery polished to the point of blinding, and he's going to nick a handful of jewels from the boudoirs scattered along the way. That should have him sorted for a life in the lap of luxury without the confines of senseless regulations and shameless impositions (it's an empty pursuit, but a purpose nonetheless).

Robin's satchel is half-stuffed with bounty when a commotion on the upper floor catches his ear.

He really shouldn't stick his nose where it could easily be snipped off-and his head with it. His curiosity tends to land him in all sorts of trouble, and under the circumstances humouring it is outright foolish. Succumbing to it would be utter nonsense.

Steps hurry down the staircase Robin is hunkered under, and whatever it is that sends him on his way up he'll never know, except perhaps the woman's disappearing back, straight and rigid and bejeweled, somehow exudes a cold and calculating air.

The source of the earlier noise is easily discovered when he reaches the top landing-a frustrated growl, an almost howl of a caged animal betrays it.

Except when Robin picks the lock (she's caged indeed, although he's soon to find out she's far from an animal) and slips into the chamber, nothing moves but a heap of delicate, shimmery white fabric piled haphazardly on the chaise by the window. It rises and falls rapidly, in time with the heaving breathing Robin makes out in the silence of the upper floor.

A tiara lies among broken shards of glass, flung and forgotten beneath the gaping golden frame that was once a mirror.

 _Bloody hell._

It's her. The queen-to-be. The bride-to-be.

And shit-she's a sobbing mess for about the three eyeblinks it takes her to somehow sense the intruder. She freezes when she does, sits up straight-backed and tense, voice slightly hoarse with tears.

"What do you want, Mother?" she says with a mixture of resignation and defiance. "What more could you possibly want with me? Come to teach me another lesson? Well, I haven't managed to cover up the last one yet."

Her words are dripping accusation and betrayal, but not a hint of surprise-this sort of treatment at the hands of a parent isn't new to her. The realisation strums Robin's heartstrings-a painful chord, for he knows the feeling, has picked the life of a runaway for a reason after all.

The woman's half-bare shoulders tense further at the lack of response, and she turns slowly around. Robin should have been in cover a long time ago, but he's not, and nor does he move now. He doesn't evade her startled look, but spreads his hands palms up to indicate he's unarmed and poses no danger to her.

She gasps at the sight of a stranger in her chambers, but recovers fast, like one used to having her privacy invaded. In fact, her whole frame seems to relax a notch at the intruder's identity being revealed as someone other than suspected. As she tilts her head to study him with narrowed eyes, biding her time, the light hits her left cheek.

A purple bruise blooms across it, painful even to the eye.

Robin frowns.

"Your mother did that?"

She laughs humourlessly.

"And left me the tools to clean up the mess." She gestures towards the vanity with heaps upon heaps of powders, rouge, kohl, and whatnot. "Like a _good little girl_."

Robin stares from her to the vanity, then back to her again.

She's beautiful, even with the nasty swelling under her eye. Would be beyond stunning if not for the sadness residing in her eyes.

"So she'd, what, hit you again?" he marvels, mostly for the benefit of making conversation rather than staring at her dumbly. "Even though there's already a bruise you're failing to hide?"

" _Because_ there is a bruise I'm failing to hide." She shrugs, pulling her lips into a miserable shadow of a smile, and crosses her arms on her stomach. "It doesn't really matter. She's going to heal it before the wedding night anyway, lest the king notice. Although he might not be in a state to notice much of anything by then if he keeps drinking the way he has been since morning. Celebrating early, mother says; but the servants whisper he's drowning his sorrows over his dead wife. It's almost as if the king wanted this marriage as little as I. Except _he_ actually had a _choice_ in the matter."

Bloody hell, that's just fucked up. Revolting, and absolutely heart-breaking. Yet such is the world they live in-riddled with a bunch of societal norms Robin detests. For her, he knows, it's a dead end. You don't reject a king's proposal and live-not much longer anyway, and not well.

But King Leopold is beloved of his people, has always enjoyed the reputation of a kind, goodly, just ruler.

Codswallop.

Here the king is, forcing himself upon a young woman (she looks so bloody young, the more so the closer Robin looks, even though clearly her appearance has been styled in a way that makes her look less alarmingly so in comparison to the greybeard thrice her age she's to take to the altar with) without the power to exercise her will without repercussions. Granted, her mother's cruel hand might be in it, and this might be more of the norm rather than an isolated incident by Enchanted Forest custom, but that doesn't make it right. Nor does it absolve the king of responsibility. If Leopold wants to be remembered and revered as a force for good, he should ruddy well roll up his gold-trimmed sleeves and change the outdated, inhumane system, not perpetuate and benefit from it. No, the man is a coward, and a wretch, and possibly a drunkard.

Unfortunately, despicably, his drinking problem will most likely not stop him from bedding his new bride at the wedding night her heartless mother is pimping her for.

Robin must have given voice to that last thought, because her face falls at that, and she seems to shrink and collapse in on herself, sinking back onto the chaise she'd only recently vacated.

"Yes, she's-she's warned me not to have high hopes in that area."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that." He didn't mean to be so blunt and vulgar, or to add to her troubles with his ill-advised statements.

"Yes, you did," she returns simply, looking up from her hands, her gaze clear and direct again. Her face is hard, and her voice. Her heart may fare the same if forced too often to steel itself, the way it has to now. "I'm not stupid, you know, or some-or some naive princess daydreaming about knights in shiny armour or courtly romances. I know what's expected of me-and every other girl sold by her parents to the highest bidder. And your language doesn't bother me. Sugarcoating things doesn't change the facts."

Robin blinks, then nods. Despite everything, or because of it, she won't be coddled. He respects that.

"That it doesn't. Actions do indeed speak louder."

"Spoken like someone who knows about that."

Robin gives her a crooked grin that's bitter at the edges.

"I may have been a noble once, unhappy with my lot and the world at large."

Her eyes widen as his words sink in.

"So you ran," she says, bewildered and perhaps a touch envious. It makes him wonder how many times she's considered doing the same, or if she's attempted the feat and failed. "You-you actually got away?"

He nods, tacking on a self-deprecating _and now I'm a thief_ in an attempt to chase away the wistfulness clearly creeping upon her.

She only shakes her head, a flicker of a soft, dreamy smile on her lips as she corrects him: "You are free."

Robin doesn't stop to think on it really, doesn't plan his response or even consciously pick the words; it quite simply feels like the logical, natural thing to do as he uncoils the rope across his chest and tells her without ceremony:

"This will hold us both."

She blinks, smoothing the glittery, cumbersome skirt of her gown.

Truth be told, Robin's no clue what to expect. He's a stranger, making an offer clearly attractive to her in a situation that is clearly complicated, probably more so than he even suspects. She's been dealt a cruel hand before, and kindness, even genuine, brews suspicion in her. This could go either way.

He does, however, realise one thing-he very much wants her to accept.

"I don't need your charity," she says at long last, worrying her lip. "What do you want in exchange for smuggling me out of here?"

"Other than a sense of accomplishment from stealing the king's bride from right under the whole court's nose?" he ventures to joke, but she only raises an expectant eyebrow at him, so he amends: "My satchel's half full. Fill the other half, and we're even. That monster of a necklace alone is worth more than a wagonful of these trinkets."

Slowly, she turns to her vanity, and holds out the sparkling necklace picked out to complement her wedding gown. She shoves it into the enamelled jewellery box, snaps the lid shut and grabs it along with two more trinkets from her nightstand, then slips it into the waiting satchel.

"The earrings," she winks, "can feed several villages. A good thief wouldn't leave them behind."

Feeding villages isn't really something he'd considered before...but he _has_ just condemned a broken system as well as a person in power for not re-enacting change, hasn't he?

She's grinning at him now, a teasing glint in her eye, and suddenly he's suckerpunched by this-this _feeling_.

The echo of steps has them springing apart.

"Quick, hide!" she hisses, absolutely frenetic, and shoves Robin into the wardrobe, slamming the door behind him just as that of the chamber flies open, and the woman Robin knows must be her mother barges in.

"Regina, why aren't you presentable yet?"

Robin's fists clench in the stuffy wardrobe, the lavender smell doing precious little to quell his rising anger. How dare she treat her child like that? How dare any parent?

Regina's response is quiet enough that he has trouble making it out, muffled as all sound is by capes and dresses, but it is firm nevertheless.

"I'm not marrying the king, Mother."

"Oh, Regina, we've been through this. Now stop being ridiculous and get on with it. Can't you see? The king is an old, frail man. He's not going to be around forever-and then you're going to wield all the power. You're going to be _queen_. You're finally going to achieve what you were born to do."

"I was born to be a tool in your hands?" Regina claps back, voice hitching before it gains volume and conviction. "I don't think so. I want a life of my own-and I'm taking it."

Robin isn't sure what Regina tries to do; he only hears her gasp in defeat. Her mother goads and lectures, and thinks she's won, and why isn't Regina saying anything? How does he know if she's all right?

There's more speech still, none of the words Regina's, and Robin's mind is reeling, adrenaline rising, and he only makes out an ever so smug _you're stuck with me forever, darling_ , a thinly veiled threat, before someone screams-a frustrated, enraged _aaaargh_ that makes his blood freeze.

He bursts out of the wardrobe, and there's Regina now, her face contorted in anger and shock as tendrils of energy sizzle at her fingertips and fizzle out just as her mother loses her grip on the frame of a floor-length looking glass and disappears in its unfathomable depths.

Robin knows magic when he sees it; it's Regina who can't seem to believe her own eyes as she stares at her hands, then looks wildly around before glancing his way and then down at her feet.

"Still want to rescue the damsel?" she asks in a way that leaves no doubt in his mind as to what answer she expects.

Well, she's in for a surprise. He doesn't hate magic. Doesn't feel any particular way about it, really. But this woman, Regina? He has a whole lot of feelings about her already-more than he's ever thought himself capable of.

Wherever her path may lead, she deserves the chance to set her own course.

"The only woman I see," he says, "is no damsel, and she's just rescued herself from one evil." A tentative smile pulls at her lips, and Robin chances a sweeping look down her body and a playful:

"Lose the gown-wouldn't want to attract unwanted attention."

She cocks an eyebrow at him, her cheeks tinged a light pink.

"Turn around," she commands, giving him an appraising look of her own before throwing him a teasing, " _thief_."

"Robin," he grins and offers his hand even though protocol dictates he wait for hers. "Robin of Locksley, at your service."

Regina grabs the rope instead with a smirk, and races to the window.

* * *

She climbs with surprising skill, runs with more stamina than most would expect from a woman of her station, and keeps throwing him challenging looks full of amusement when she notices his admiration.

Oh, he likes her.

He'll be sorry to see her go when it's time to part ways.

That time comes soon enough-too soon-when they're deep enough in the woods after a swift and heavy rainfall that they won't be easily tracked by hound or man.

She turns to him then, shifting a bit as she speaks and closing her eyes briefly when she catches herself fidgeting.

"I know every noble in the land," she says, then rolls her eyes. "Especially eligible bachelors. Useful if you're looking for places to rob."

Robin's stomach somersaults.

"And what would you ask for in return?" He sounds eager even to himself and hopes she won't notice, or at least be put off by his very obvious interest.

She shrugs, sheepish all of a sudden.

"Teach me how to not get caught."

Robin chuckles before he can think twice, pausing when she frowns-and no, he's not mocking her for her lack of survival skills when until recently he'd had precious little of mastery of those himself.

"Very well, milady," he easily agrees, raising his hands in defense when she tilts her head to question his choice of address. "Well, _Your Majesty_ hardly applies now."

Her laughter rings out loud, and clear, and unfettered.

It's music to his ears.

"Good riddance," she grins. "I prefer Regina anyway."

"Well, Regina," Robin smirks back at her, "it seems we've each got ourselves a partner."


	2. Unwritten

_Prompt 44: Regina picks up the newest book by her favorite writer. Another best seller that she can't get enough of. What she doesn't realize is that the heroine from those books is inspired by her and the books were written by her sweet, handsome but oh so shy (at least in RL) neighbor Robin._

* * *

The package arrives around noon, delivered to the stables along with her afternoon charges all fitted out in their riding helmets and little boot Grace is among them, and baby Neal, who's only just started to toddle but had been riding like a champ (with ample assistance, of course) for two weeks now. Rarely do Regina's thoughts ever stray from the job she adores—but today is definitely one of those days.

 _Another in a long line of Huntingdon's masterpieces,_ Unwritten _has all the trademark flair we've come to associate with him—yet in many ways it's unlike any of his novels before. 10/10 would recommend!_

 _Fantastic—in all senses of the word!_

 _An epic battle played out in one remarkable woman's heart. Huntingdon's heroine is stunning in every way._

Oh, she can't wait to rip the paper off of this one, pour herself a glass of wine, and read through the night.

* * *

Only Regina ends up having to wait much longer than she'd like to crack the spine and leaf through crisp pages, because of course luck would have it she's forgotten her damn keys at work.

"Robin can help," Henry pipes up as she huffs in frustration, and before she can stop him he's knocking on number 107's door. "Hey, Robin!"

"Hello, Henry," comes the neighbour's raspy voice with its lilting accent and friendly smile. "Everything all right?"

"We're locked out. Can you help us get in?"

"Somehow," Robin chuckles, "I don't think your mother would approve of my picking your lock."

"She certainly wouldn't," Regina quips, and only then does Robin poke his head into the hallway, his eyes widening at the sight of her. His grin freezes a bit, then his lips pull into an apologetic half-smirk. The scruff is back, she notices, and does it ever suit him. Regina clears her throat (and her wandering mind), readjusts her grip on the rustling package her neighbour's bright blue gaze flickers to, and sighs in resignation. "At least not under normal circumstances."

Desperate times, after all, call for desperate measures.

* * *

 _Elysia stretched before them, bathed in liquid gold sunshine painting the land in vivid hues as the drab blackness of Eva Quinn's life lurked behind, shunned and rejected and stripped of its power._

 _And the child was reborn—the light of her life, her little prince with claim to no kingdom but the entirety of her heart. He hadn't come from her body, but she'd carried him swaddled and strapped to her chest through swathes of land, through blistering heat and crippling cold, dismissing all her aches only to soothe his, and braving the eternal night of Erebia with only a vague vision of some unknown but staggering light in the future she was fighting to build for the two of them. She'd left an entire life and part of her identity behind, a life only waiting to happen, and carried him here, where they could both be free._

 _And the babe stirred in her arms, blinking his little eyes dazedly as a playful sunbeam tickled his chubby cheeks—and hers—for the very first time._

 _They had reached their destination—and life was only just beginning._

Regina clutches the book to her with one white-knuckled hand, her other gripping tightly the blanket Henry's snuggled under, fast asleep with his comic long dropped from loose fingers, his solid warmth soothing where he's cuddled into her side. She can't look at him enough, her very own precious little prince—except she can barely see through the tears she hasn't realised are rolling down her cheeks—and have been for a while judging by the state of the front of her pyjamas. _Oh dear god._

This heroine has hit a nerve. Several nerves, rather. Regina's chest had squeezed when, driven by circumstances, centaur heiress Eva Quinn had given up her birth right and her hooves (and it should be cringe-worthy perhaps, this odd allusion to Ariel applied to a mythical humanoid-turned-human, but somehow Huntingdon's managed to make it not so) in search for a better life. Yes, Regina's chest had squeezed so hard she could barely breathe, scraps of memories of her equestrian career and its untimely end floating to the surface, old emotions flooding her. They no longer scratch and claw at her since she'd worked through them and made her peace with the course her life had taken, found happiness even. But they have a dull, bitter tang all the same, and likely always will. Rarely does she voice them, for rarely has she felt understood—except now, with this fictional kindred spirit, she does.

And then there's the wonder that is a child, a child not grown under your heart but in it, no less, and that's another aspect of Eva Quinn that plucks at her heartstrings—something she has evidence of, she thinks, sniffling and shaking her head as she decides against changing her pyjamas so that she doesn't wake her dozing son.

It is past midnight after all—an hour for most reasonable working people to be asleep.

Regina fluffs her pillow, adjusts the lamp, and reads on.

* * *

To say the book's exceeded her wildest expectations would be an understatement. Her expectations meanwhile had been sky-high, what with each of her favourite author's last dozen works topping the bestseller list and lingering there practically until his newest piece hit she shelves. And she loves them all; but _Unwritten_ , she can already tell five chapters in, is just… _special_.

It's…fairytale-like. Unusually so for a Huntingdon, who despite his clearly positive outlook and fantastical medium enchants Regina by precisely his realism interspersed with sharp witticisms and clever satire—all while he manages to retain an astonishingly unshaken faith in humanity. She wants to scoff at that, the blind idealism—but it isn't that, not really. He sees the flaws, describes them in vivid detail—and yet. She can only envy him. And thank him, perhaps, for inspiring her to keep her heart open and her guard, well, if not down then at least a bit lower than it would otherwise be.

If only she could tell him face to face. But Robert Huntingdon is a mystery, a pseudonym whose true identity remains hidden from the public, whose only recourse is the author's social media and fan mail address. Regina isn't into either (thank goodness the ranch she works at has someone else to run their social media), and so the only time her enthusiasm bursts forth is when she recommends his books to friends (and, sometimes, strangers) left and right.

Even, it turns out, to clearly busy neighbours at the most inopportune moments.

"Morning, sister," Leroy the postman greets in his usual morose manner as she shuts the door behind her in the morning, tapping his foot and holding up a large box of whatever it is Robin Locksley's trying to haul over the threshold and into his apartment.

"Thanks again for yesterday," she peers inside, and Robin turns around to give her one of those grins that make her belly flutter.

"Any time," he shrugs, fidgeting with a tear in the corner of the package and effectually blocking it from sight as he leans against it.

Regina finds that a bit—off-putting, to be honest, feels almost unwelcome by this odd distance between them as she hangs awkwardly in the doorway while he remains stationed inside by his monstrous delivery. She'd find him hostile if it weren't for the smile playing around his lips and reaching those warm, crystal clear eyes.

She waves the book around on impulse, itching to open it even though it had barely been two hours since she'd put it down to take a twenty-minute nap before she needed to wake Henry for school. She knows Robin likes to read, has had brief discussions of books with him before when they shared short elevator rides, so why not recommend him this treasure?

"Have you started the latest Huntingdon yet?"

"Oh—well…" he rubs the back of his neck, shifting in place. "I haven't had the pleasure yet, no." And then, with visibly increased interest: "How are you liking it?"

Regina is just about to unleash her full enthusiasm on her poor, unsuspecting neighbour, when Henry yells at her to hurry up or they're going to be late, and Robin escapes with just a gasp-turned-yawn and a quick wave as she races for the car.

* * *

Slowly but surely, Regina resigns herself to becoming an absolute mess every time she immerses herself in Eva Quinn's story. She forgets about her surroundings, developing limb stiffness and backaches from the variously convoluted positions she finds herself in, and for the first time in her life arrives to work fifteen minutes late because for a moment she's forgotten there's a job she needs to get to. The only reason she even cooks that night is Henry, but after she burns her trademark lasagna by some miracle (not really—she was sneaking peeks at the pages again, dammit, and didn't event hear the timer go off), they end up ordering in anyway.

 _The world, so the teachings went, was split into two great realms, eternal night and permanent light, with no third land for those caught in between._

 _If the world was indeed black and white, Eva Quinn was clearly evil._

 _Everything she touched turned to dust and ashes. It was like she carried a taint, and whichever way she offered a helping hand, whosoever's life she touched, that taint would spread to them like the plague. Despite her best efforts, regardless of her intent, darkness followed her._

 _Perhaps her mother had been right all along. Perhaps, borne of darkness, Eva Quinn was darkness incarnate—and how could she escape herself? Flee from a fate inscribed in her very core, a personal night she carried around in her heart?_

She's glad for the wine tonight, grateful for the slight prickle and burn of alcohol sloshing down her throat and into her belly.

Regina doesn't hate herself. She can say that now, finally. But she also knows all the darkest corners of the lonely, convoluted labyrinth that is self-loathing. It took years of therapy to heal the damage inflicted by her own mother, and oh how broken, how unworthy she'd once felt. And still those dark thoughts, those patterns of self-hate do still rear their ugly head sometimes. They may never quite go away, having been so deeply ingrained in her—but on most days she can handle them now.

Eva Quinn isn't there yet. She doesn't see, even rationally, that the path of destruction she believes she leaves behind is invisible to everyone else in Elysia, dwarven kingdom of purest hearts. She doesn't see the fruit of her labours in the cloud of smoke rising from the blazing trail of ashes she supposedly leaves behind. She's appalled then astonished to receive summons to the royal palace for recognition; remain sceptical of her own worth even as Bianca Neve's court applauds and cheers the newly knighted champion of the righteous and true. Disgusted by the concept of preordained roles to be fulfilled in life rampant in both kingdoms, Eva channels her energy into establishing a new colony, Ephemera, for those who wish to break out of the confines of their prescribed fate.

Regina spots the flaw in her plan immediately, knows she's doomed to failure looking for happiness outside rather than inside before it even happens, and caresses the inked pages as if she could somehow bestow even a bit of gentleness, understanding and compassion, through the paper. If only she could shake Eva Quinn by the shoulders, if only to pull her into a rib-crushing hug—and she grins. It's such a Mary Margaret thought to have, one Regina would have absolutely detested being on the receiving end of once upon a time. Things change though. People change.

Eva Quinn—Regina has to believe this—is also going to get there. Next chapter, or the one after, or perhaps the following one, her journey to self-acceptance must surely begin. And Regina will be there every step of the way.

* * *

The good news is, Eva Quinn's journey does begin a number of chapters later, and Regina is indeed very much there—even though it's at three in the morning.

The bad news is, this book is going to be the death of her.

She doesn't sleep. The nap she intends to take during her lunch break turns into another reading session, intense enough that she drops the fork halfway through her kale salad, food and sleep all but forgotten.

 _Food and sleep all but forgotten, Eva Quinn rode through forests and plains, through mountains and dales, through desert and storm, to the castle shrouded in a darkness thicker and more suffocating than it'd ever been. All for the sake of a sickbed. For a few words, whispered and slurred, into her ear as she kissed her father's cheek and sprinkled it with tears. Perhaps if she'd come sooner, or had never left in the first place, he'd—but no. She couldn't have stopped the inevitable. Her father smiled, a bright, childlike thing in the absolute simplicity of his happiness, and how did she have the power to bestow so much joy upon anyone?_

There's a light in your heart, darling _, he told her and seemed to literally beam at the thought,_ there's always been light—and now it's strong, like the heart you carry it within.

 _Her shrivelled heart, filled with enough magic to sweeten a dying man's last hours? Large enough to smuggle some of Elysia's sunshine into the land of forever new moon? Could it be?_

 _Eva Quinn couldn't comprehend._

 _Yet as her father breathed his last breath, his words were ones of pride, and love, and absolution of past wrongdoings in exchange for the promise to allow herself happiness._

Papi had been gone for years. Ten, to be exact—the entire span of Henry's life. Oh how proud he had been, how moved to hold his namesake, his precious grandson, for the first—and last—time when the adoption had been completed.

Regina cries for him tonight, cries for all the time they weren't given together, then cries over all the time they had been gifted as she thumbs through albums filled with memories of her childhood and youth.

No one had loved her quite like him, or sacrificed so much for her happiness, even if he'd failed to protect her from his heartless wife.

The last chapter looms before Regina as she breaks open another box of Kleenex. Already she's overtaken by that unique sense of loss experienced in the wake of a brilliant book. She doesn't even begrudge Robert Huntingdon for turning her into an undignified sobbing mess on the regular, because few other experiences in her life have been so utterly—freeing.

Cathartic.

 _Change is incremental, and balance comes from within. As people from all corners of the world begin to embrace the good and bad in themselves, the sun and the moon shine for everyone again. The border between the kingdoms of light and dark is gone, and her son will grow up in a better world._

 _Eva Quinn's heart has never been stronger._

Regina is left staring at the page. She's barely breathed through the last few pages, but now her chest expands and she feels light, refreshed and almost weightless despite the alarming lack of sleep lately.

She's still processing, still reflecting when the doorbell rings.

Startled, she shoots a glance at the neon display of the microwave. There's enough daylight that she doesn't need it though, and sure enough, it says 08:15 am.

 _Oh, shit._

"Robin, I'm so sorry," she stammers out as soon as she yanks the door open. "I completely lost track of time—"

"Regina, what happened?" His voice is laced with worry, alarm etched into his frowning face. "Are you all right? Henry?"

It takes a good while for his meaning to sink in, and when it does, Regina is mortified. He's standing there all gorgeous in a blue button-down shirt while she's still wearing her work clothes from the day before, and the lack of make up will have those glorious bags under her eyes she's developed in the past few days on full display. Her hair's dishevelled, tear streaks running down her cheeks, eyes puffy from lack of sleep and excessive crying. Oh god, what a sight she must be.

"W—he's fine. We're both fine. Henry's still asleep—shocking for a Saturday morning—but I'm sure he'll be up the moment he hears Roland's over."

"Are you quite sure? Apologies, but you look like you haven't slept a wink. And the flu's been making the rounds of late—"

"It's not the flu," she says, then chuckles at the absurdity of it all. "I'm not sick. Just silly. I blame Huntingdon, actually."

"I…see." Robin draws back at that, a grave look settling on his features instead of the shared laugh she expected to garner from her joke. Instead, she gets a guilt-ridden: "I'm sorry."

"For what? Unless you're secretly him, you've nothing to apologise for."

Her teasing only has him withdraw further, and that's not like him at all.

"What gave me away?"

Is he—is he joking? But either he's developed an impenetrable poker face in the last five seconds, or—he's being serious.

"Oh my god," Regina breathes. This _cannot_ be.

"You're mad," says Robin, and it could be an accusation or a denial, but he delivers it instead as a n apology. "I quite understand, I shouldn't have—should've been more discreet—"

It is then that it truly hits her.

"Eva Quinn is—is she—?"

"Inspired by you, yes. I never intended any harm. Truth be told, I never planned for you to find out. Although part of me thought you might—maybe even hoped that you'd see yourself the way I—the way others see you. Anyway, no one knows—nor will they ever, I promise you that."

He's rambling, churning out words like he expects her to cut him off any second now and possibly never speak a word to him again.

Regina has a temper—but she doesn't exactly feel the urge to burn him down with its force.

"Robin, I'm not angry with you." Funnily enough, it's true. Is this how starstruck feels? "I'm just—this can't be real. You're my favourite author."

"Present tense?" he asks hopefully, and she rolls her eyes at him dramatically, pleased to see his whole body relax.

"Are you in the book? As a character, I mean?"

"Ah, self-inserts," Robin plays along with the theatrics, mischief in his eyes. "A blemish on everyone's literary resume. So of course I went there. Not a primary character in Eva's life—just a guest appearance here and there."

"Oh. You're—you're Tobin Wood."

Yes, Tobin Wood, friend for a rainy day, popping up here and there at different times of Eva's life, always with a word of encouragement to spare and never asking for anything in return. He's not ever on Eva's radar as a romantic match, and with that knowledge, despite his own secret pining, he never vies for her affections. Regina found this refreshing, and healthy unlike many such occurrence in the realms of fiction and reality both.

She's not sure where this sudden, indistinct pang of disappointment is coming from now.

"You did miss one thing after all," Regina mutters before she realises she might be giving away a bit too much. Or perhaps not—if Tobin has a crush on Eva, perhaps this means Robin has one on Regina, too? He stares at her expectantly, his brow creased, and her mind feels sluggish as she stares back into all that startling blue. "About me and," she clears her throat, "well, your heroine."

The truth is, he did an incredible piece of work, and the effort he put in makes her feel all manner of things. Scraps of information, brief exchanges, subtle, cryptic hints at her life casually shared and forgotten—from these he assembled the puzzle, and the picture is startlingly accurate and at the same time somehow more stunning than she ever saw it—saw herself—for.

Robin rubs the back of his neck, trying to stifle the flush creeping up it. He cocks his head and regards her for a bit. Much to her surprise, his answer carries not a hint of bashfulness.

"Perhaps," he admits, "but I daresay I've captured the essence. Strong and tenacious, no matter what life throws at you. Passionate about what you believe in—and a fiery temper to match. Blunt and guarded and kind, and fiercely devoted to those you love. A sarcastic dreamer. A brilliant instructor—and a wonderful mother."

"Is that really how you see me?" she whispers, blinking back tears that are definitely a sign of exhaustion rather than simply of the impact of his words.

"Yes," he says softly. In response to her watery smile, he adds a smirk of his own. "And an avid reader, apparently."

Regina chuckles, and just like that, the prickle in her eyes stops.

"Especially when it comes to Hunti— When it comes to your books." Dear god, this man, Robin Locksley, her very handsome, very shy for some unfathomable reason, neighbour, is in fact also Robert Huntingdon, the author she looks up to and whose works have meant so much to her—and his latest success is inspired by none other than her. By Regina Mills, currently awkwardly leaning against the door close enough to said man that she gets a whiff of that delicious cologne that's all fragrant pine and the crunch of leaves under hiking shoes. And he seems just as stunned, just as pleased by the latest revelations as she is. "I—thank you. This is the most unique, wonderful compliment I've ever received."

"Not creepy?"

"No," she laughs, because it really isn't. He's never not respectful when describing Eva Quinn, or any of his characters, really—be it their thoughts or their appearance. It's something she likes about his writing—the utter lack of gross objectification or blatant sexism all too rampant in literature and life at large, the care and maturity his characters are crafted with instead. "Not creepy at all."

"Oh thank goodness," he exhales with a self-deprecating, apologetic little grin. His lips fascinate her, and he seems emboldened when he catches her staring. "Regina—" He reaches for her, then seems to think better of it and thrusts his hands into his pockets. She wishes he hadn't. "Not to sound presumptuous, but would you like to—"

"Papa? Papa!" Roland sprints across the hallway and comes to a halt between the two of them. "Regina! Can we go now? I can't wait to ride Foxy again!"

Robin chuckles, throwing Regina an apologetic look as he sweeps Roland into his arms.

"In a moment, my boy. Let's give Regina and Henry just a few more minutes to get ready, and then I'll drive us all to the ranch, how about that?"

And that's not their usual routine, but he's probably reached the conclusion she shouldn't drive in her degree of sleep-deprivation—and he's certainly not wrong. Regina musses Roland's wild curls—he's cute as a button, and she can't be mad at him no matter what, including this particular interruption. But she's frustrated, and clearly so is Robin. He was about to ask her out, she just knows it, and damn if she doesn't stomp out every last bit of doubt he might still have about her interest in him.

"Robin?" she calls after him. "You still owe me that drink you were gonna ask me out for—perhaps after dinner?"

His smile is absolutely radiant, and the way it pulls into a smirk makes her heart—and not only that—flutter.

"I suppose I do."

And that, as they're both soon to find out, is only the start.

 _Not because it's written; but because in the end, the hand penning your story is your own._


	3. Fixer-Upper

_Prompt 58-59: Henry and Roland are friends (they are about 10 years old). Roland really likes Henry's mom Regina and Henry thinks Roland's dad Robin is pretty cool. They decide to play cupid. Henry makes sure that several things in his house break and Robin (a handyman) has to come and fix them. Hopefully, his mom's broken heart as well._

 _AN: I've kept Roland a bit younger, I hope you don't mind. :)_

* * *

"Remember, it's top secret," Henry stresses, leaning forward for added emphasis. "They can't know we're behind this. If Mom finds out, I'll be grounded till retirement."

Roland puffs out his chest, bouncing with excitement—this he can surely do.

"Don't worry," he says. "I'm brilliant at sneaking around."

"Right. Which is why you're the one planting your dad's business card in my mom's pocket."

Roland frowns at that, turning the forest green card in his hands. His treehouse has just been upgraded from favourite hangout to headquarters of Operation Lionheart, for which he and Henry are currently hatching out their master plan. There seems to be a rather obvious flaw in said plan though.

"Yeah, but Regina already has Daddy's number. She's only ever called to confirm sleepovers—and they're never both there. What if—" Roland pauses, voicing a worry niggling at him for a while now. "What if they don't fancy each other? Then Regina just gets someone else to fix the...whatever it is you break. Daddy's not the only handyman in town."

"Maybe not," Henry admits, his enthusiasm not dimming one bit. "But he's the _best_. And soon he's gonna be the only contact Mom has at hand—why wouldn't she use it? Once they get to spend a little time together, get to know each other a bit, they're guaranteed to fall in love. I mean, Robin's really cool. How could my mom not like him?"

"And Regina is wonderful! She's funny and nice and has the best laugh. Pretty, too," Roland adds, shifting shyly. "And her apple turnovers are magic!"

Henry chuckles. Roland can see why—he'd be laughing, too, if he got to enjoy Regina's marvellous cooking all day, every day.

Maybe he will—that and more. _If_ this plan works. Then Henry will also be his true brother.

"So," Roland grins, rubbing his hands together. "What are you gonna break then?"

* * *

It's the Mills' kitchen sink that first falls victim to their matchmaking.

Henry knows Regina is capable enough to handle minor things like a lightbulb switch, so those are out of the question. He's considered a leaking toilet, but he's not entirely sure how he'd go about causing that particular issue, and there's plenty of bathrooms in the house for it to not be an urgent one anyway. Besides, a broken toilet just isn't romantic.

So down the drain go popsicle sticks, peanut butter, and a bunch of other objects Henry can think to stuff in, effectively blocking it just minutes before Regina's keys clink in the lock.

He meets her halfway between kitchen and foyer, twisting his face into a worried, urgent expression.

"Mom, I think the drain is clogged. We'll have to call Ro—someone to look at it."

But instead of dialling Robin Locksley, Mom unearths a mysterious bottle of home-made cleaning solution, which she pours a generous amount of down said drain. The blockage, and all of Henry's hard work, dissolves within an hour.

Who knew Mom's magic extended beyond lasagna to solving plumbing emergencies with a mere flick of the wrist?

Henry definitely has her stubbornness and determination though, and he won't be easily deterred. The backup plan is put to practice the very same evening.

Mom likes things clean and proper, and even one missed load of laundry is bound to throw her. Surely she'll want the washing machine fixed right away, and surely she's going to turn to the one person whose contact she propitiously found in her pocket and flung onto the foyer table earlier—right?

Wrong.

"I'll find someone to come over Monday," she sighs with a hint of frustration. "We have enough fresh clothes for a couple of days."

Henry cannot believe his ears. A couple of days? Who is this woman and what has she done with his mom?

Perhaps if he hinted at the card, or even mentioned in passing that his best friend's dad just so happens to be a handyman, she'd reconsider.

Or see right through him.

That's the more likely scenario actually, considering Mom and he can often communicate through looks alone. Normally he finds this cool and comforting, but it really complicates things when his intentions are, well, less innocent and just a bit devious. Like now.

Leroy the janitor turns up at the mansion the next day, grumpy (it's the weekend, and he probably wouldn't have bothered at all if Mom wasn't the mayor) but efficient enough, and by the time he leaves, the laundry room's abuzz with the quiet drone of the perfectly functional appliance.

* * *

"It's almost as if she wanted to avoid Robin at all costs," Henry sighs, leafing through an old issue of _The Incredible Hulk._ It's too dark to really read in their pillow fort despite the torch, but Roland doesn't feel much like comic books right now anyway.

Henry made another failed attempt to sabotage a vital appliance that afternoon, but as much as Regina loves her coffee, she only complained of a string of bad luck, joking that a vicious curse must be at work to have stricken a full three times now, and made herself a cup the old-fashioned way by boiling water on the stove.

When they'd first moved to Storybrooke, it was hard to imagine life without their old family. Uncle John and Will and Tuck had stayed behind in faraway England with the distant promise of visiting at Christmas. Daddy had promised Roland would find new friends here in Storybrooke. He'd been right of course—Henry took Roland under his wing the first day at school, and they've since become inseparable.

Between treehouses and pillow forts, sleepovers and daytrips, Roland gets to spend plenty of time with Henry's mum. He likes Regina. He liked her the moment she waved at him through the classroom window while he'd sat gazing forlornly after Daddy's disappearing pickup truck. He likes coming over to hang out at the mansion with either Mills or both of them, likes her happy smile when he tells her the food is delicious or that her hugs are the softest, even likes the way she rolls her eyes playfully when he and Henry make a mess of her gleaming kitchen or build the world's biggest pillow fort using up her entire supply of bedding.

The door opens to a crack, and Regina pokes her head into the room.

"All right," she says firmly. "Lights out, misters. You need your sleep before tomorrow's soccer extravaganza."

"It's football, Regina," Roland corrects for the gazillionth time, giggling at her little huff.

The torch goes out immediately—Regina is nice but also strict—and the blankets come off so that she can tuck them both in properly, kissing Henry's forehead first and then Roland's, and wishing them both sweet dreams.

It's always like this with them—Regina treats Roland with just as much care as she does Henry when he's staying over, and Robin does the same for Henry when they're camped out at the Locksley cottage.

Yes, Roland likes things the way they are just fine—but why not make them even better?

If only there were a failsafe way to wreck something and make sure no one but Daddy is fit for the task of repairing it…

* * *

The pristine facade and neatly trimmed hedges of 108 Mifflin Street greet Robin with silence. Not that he expected yelling, never that; but Roland sounded beyond agitated on the phone, reiterating over and over again that he wanted his Daddy to come over immediately.

Roland had always been a bit of a mischief—not unlike his father, if Robin's honest—but he's a good lad, had never gotten into any sort of serious trouble before.

What has gotten into him now?

Eager to find out, Robin's barely a step into the porch when the front door flies open, and Henry tugs him inside with a subdued but unmistakable little grin that seems most suspiciously out of place.

"In here," he says, dragging Robin through the foyer and into the kitchen.

Roland at least is appropriately enthused to see him as he waves energetically, but much to Robin's surprise he remains sitting on his stool, shooting furtive looks Regina's way.

Regina turns around from the counter just then, and Robin almost doesn't recognise her. She's dressed down, casual by her standards in black slacks and black waistcoat over a grey tee, tucking away a strand of hair just come loose from her short pony. Even so, even here in the privacy of her home, she's still stylish—and still stunning. Somehow even more so than in her usual pantsuits, tailored dresses, or decadent gowns—and that's saying something.

If only she didn't loathe him so.

As things stand between them, she barely spares Robin a glance and acknowledges him with no more than a curt nod and a polite hello as she lays a tall glass of milk and two cookies in front of each boy, ruffling Roland's messy curls with a reassuring smile. The boy beams up at her with not a trace of trepidation, and not only is it clear Regina has been nothing but understanding about the incident, but Roland seems oddly cavalier about the whole thing—and that is most certainly unlike him.

"And have you apologised to Regina?"

Roland is suddenly too busy chewing and not meeting Robin's eye.

"He has," Regina says curtly, a speck of annoyance clearly somehow stirred by the elder Locksley. "And there's no need for you to do anything—I only called you because he'd been so upset about it and asked for you."

But Roland is the furthest thing from upset right now, stuffing a cookie into his mouth happily and snickering into his milk for no apparent reason.

Perhaps once home, he'll get to the bottom of his boy's peculiar behaviour.

But Robin has a job to do first—it's only fair after all.

"I've all I need to fix it for you right now."

"You have a window pane with you," she immediately challenges, eyebrow arching to very nearly disappear in her hairline.

"That I do," he can't help but smirk as her haughty expression falls just a tad. "Roland wasn't exactly articulate on the phone, but I did manage to catch that much. Now, if you would lead the way?"

* * *

Robin starts out on the wrong foot. First he tramples Regina's tulips; then he walks right into a rather obvious trap when he defends his ignorance of some town ordinance or other as he makes a painful attempt at conversation in a rather strained silence.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," he teases a tad with the bold moniker, "I'm still somewhat new in town."

"You've been here four months," she scoffs. She's hovering behind him with her arms crossed, as though he needed supervision for the simple task of fixing a broken window. "How much longer do you expect to get a free pass based on that excuse?"

"Not a minute longer, it seems," Robin returns, throwing her a wink she takes none too kindly to. Every venture of his has only ever been met with disdain or dismay on her part; yet he still can't help himself. "The boys tell me there's been quite the epidemic sweeping through your house lately," he muses. "Clogged drains, leaky taps, broken down appliances? Bit of a bummer for a mansion this stately."

"Oh, so now you're a real estate expert, too?"

"Just a handyman, milady," he shrugs in mock innocence. "Best one in town."

"Debatable."

"Not for long," Robin says, pulling himself up and brushing off his jeans. "All done here."

A shadow crosses her features—or so Robin fancies. Surprise, most likely—she doesn't think much of him after all. Either way, he blinks and it's gone.

Not so the football peeking from under the rosebush, chequered black and white against the lush green—and miles away from the miniature goalpost.

"Something doesn't add up here."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she shoots back, going from crossed arms to hands on hips in an eye-blink.

But this isn't an accusation—not yet, and definitely not against her.

"You said Roland kicked the ball?"

"Yes?"

Robin shakes his head. None of this is making sense to him, but the facts speak for themselves.

"Well, Roland's got better aim than that. As a matter of fact, everybody has."

"Your point, Locksley?"

But she's figured it out already—he can tell by how her brows knit, and by the subtle way she bites her lip before she catches herself.

"Roland may have a puckish streak," she frowns. "But he'd never do something like that. Not on purpose anyway."

Robin swallows as her words, brimming with confidence and trust for his son, touch some chord in him that makes his chest expand fit to burst with affection for Regina Mills. His instinct, however, tells him they're going to have to face a different reality soon. That, and his observation skills.

"Roland," he addresses the trainered foot his son has failed to conceal behind the hazelnut bush. "You can come out now."

And he does, slowly, dragging himself all slumped shoulders and hanging head, the very personification of defeat.

Regina steps forward and crouches in front of a miserable Roland, who simply won't look her in the eye.

"Sweetheart, it's okay. I know it was an accident."

Far from soothed by this, Roland sniffs, his shoulders sagging further. All it does is confirm Robin's suspicion.

"Roland, my boy— _was_ it an accident?"

The child chokes out a little sob, eyes trained on his the tips of his shoes, messy curls falling into his face and bouncing as he shakes his head and whispers: "I'm s-sorry, Regina."

"It's my fault, too." Henry emerges out of nowhere, cheeks flushed but eyes shining with determination. He swallows, then squares his shoulders and puts an arm around Roland. "If you punish Roland, then I should be punished, too. I did all the other stuff."

"The other stuff?" Regina stutters, exchanging an incredulous looks with Robin as understanding dawns. Ah, yes, the streak of bad luck—not mere chance after all.

Roland drowns out every possible follow-up question though as he throws his arm around Henry and insists: "Together."

"You've planned this together?" Robin clarifies.

The boys nod vehemently—and they're an admirable twosome really, what with their mutual loyalty and courage when it comes to having the other's back, Robin has to give them that.

Regina looks between the two of them, brow furrowed as her mouth opens and closes several times before she gets out an entirely puzzled:

"But—why?"

That's all it takes, though, a perfectly logical questions spoken softly and without a trace of anger, for Roland's tears, kept at bay for so long, to finally spill as he stutters brokenly:

"We j-just wanted us to be a f-family."

* * *

Robin Locksley's left nothing but his toolbox behind, forgotten on her lawn as the man had carried a sniffling, miserable Roland to the truck and driven off.

They're back in the kitchen—Henry sitting stiffly in his chair awaiting a stern talking to, and Regina battling with the defiant coffee machine, playing for time.

Honestly, what had gotten into these children?

The damn appliance simply won't cooperate, and if she can have neither her glass of whiskey (not exactly a coping mechanism she wants to model to her ten-year-old) nor her cup of good, strong coffee, she heaves a sigh and leans back against the counter.

"You know you're grounded, don't you?" she opens, relieved she's actually managed to keep the full brunt of her anger out of her voice. He wouldn't understand where it's really coming from—not yet anyway. Not unless she tries.

"I know."

It's sincere, and unhappy, but she needs to make sure he gets why he's being punished.

"Henry, I hope you understand what you did was wrong?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Do you also understand _why_ it was wrong?"

"We were just trying to help," he defends, his arms raised from the table palms up in a vehement gesture, his frustration clear. Then, just like that, he deflates. Before she can get a word in edgewise, his expression softens, and Regina's prepared neither for the gentle, reassuring tone nor the words her son speaks. "I know you loved my dad, _so_ much. But he wouldn't want you to be all alone forever."

Regina's jaw drops, her heartbeat going staccato as her chest tightens.

"I am not alone," she says, her voice higher than she'd like, a touch hurt. "I have you, and...I thought-I thought we were perfectly happy, just the two of us."

"We are," Henry assures her quickly, leaning forward over the table. She sinks into the chair next to him, taking the hand he offers as he trudges on. "And I love the two of us. But I also really like Roland, and I like having Robin in my life. I know you just act like you can't stand him. Everyone deserves a second chance, Mom. If you just opened your heart to it—"

Is _that_ what this is all about? Two boys playing matchmaker for their single parents? It would almost be sweet, or amusing, if it weren't so overwhelmingly terrifying. _Shit._

"Henry," she sighs, "a heart isn't like a household appliance. It takes more than a handyman to mend a broken one. And it takes time."

"But it's been years!" Regina winces—there's some truth to Henry's argument, she just doesn't necessarily want to admit it. Admitting it would mean confronting ugly truths and hurt feelings she doesn't care to or dare acknowledge. But Henry, bless his heart, is relentless. "I just want you to be happy, Mom."

"I don't even like Robin." And that's a lie. She doesn't lie to Henry, ever. So she amends: "Not like—well, not like that anyway. Besides, _he_ definitely doesn't like _me_."

And that, she thinks as the dreadful lead of something-she-won't-name settles deep in her belly, is definitely true. There's been ample evidence for that.

"Sure he does—and yes, you do. I saw you bring him lemonade."

"It's common courtesy, Henry." What is a jar of iced water and lemon zest with a hint of lime on a summer day, after all? Not even a little bother.

Henry grins.

"You made it with mint," he says triumphantly, as though she'd just handed him a victory. Shit, she really did—she casually accommodated a preference he'd mentioned in passing weeks ago, and didn't even realise. "You remembered. You only act like you don't like him because you're scared."

"Henry," she sighs.

"Aaand I saw you checking him out while he was fixing our window."

"Henry! How'd— Where'd you even—?"

"Mooom," he rolls his eyes. "Why don't you just—?"

"Give him a chance?" she groans, rolling her eyes in turn—but she knows she's not fooling anyone here.

Henry smiles with a wisdom belying his age, and squeezes her hand.

"Give _yourself_ a chance."

* * *

Regina has the toolbox ready when the doorbell rings to announce Robin Locksley's presence at her door for the second time that day.

"How's Roland doing?" she asks as she hands the toolbox to him. The poor boy was shaken up far worse than Henry. This town, and this life, is still reasonably new to him after all, and what sense of security he'd gained here seemed to have gone right out of that stupid broken window when Roland burst into sobs in her backyard.

"Asleep. Belle French is watching him."

Regina winces. So much for Henry's pep talk. Not that she didn't already know any attempt on her side to stop hiding from her feelings would amount to nothing anyway.

"I see. Well, I imagine you wanna get right back to them then."

"Actually," he says as he adjust his stance, the toolbox swinging awkwardly between them, "Belle said no need to rush, her date doesn't start till later tonight. Ruby has a shift to finish first."

Wait—what now?

"Regina, I must apologise again on my son's behalf. The boys meant well, but their behaviour is still unacceptable." Robin sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, then looks her in the eye with grave sincerity and conviction. "No woman should have a man's presence imposed upon her by force or by trick. It won't happen again."

"Right," Regina says, clearing her throat. If only her mind would stop buzzing and mulling over things it has no business dwelling on. "Neither should you. Be forced to be around someone you dislike, I mean. I'm sorry, too, on Henry's behalf."

Robin tilts his head at that, his eyes boring into hers. She's torn between wanting to bask in those brilliant blue depths and struggling to stop him from seeing too much in her own eyes. Whatever it is he's looking for, whether or not he finds it, he takes a deep breath and, clutching his toolbox with both hands (because the thing is heavy or merely to occupy his hands?) as he makes a startling admission.

"I do like you, actually. A fair bit, too, in all honesty." His gaze has gone soft, his smile gentle—and her heart flutters uninvited. It's over all too soon though, for Robin gathers himself and settles on that earnest tone again, the dreaminess of his earlier expression gone. "But you've made it abundantly clear you're the furthest thing from interested in pursuing any sort of relationship—not to mention a romantic one—with me, so obviously I'd never act on it."

Well this is just absurd.

"You don't like me," she counters, because what he's saying just doesn't make sense, does it? "You challenge me at every public forum."

Robin chuckles at that.

"Well, someone has to do it. Good projects have come out of our, well," he winks at her, "fiery exchanges, wouldn't you say? And I get to see you in your element—the way I see it, it's a win-win."

Not many people can boast having stunned Regina Mills to silence, and boast truthfully; but Robin Locksley's just made the list.

He takes her lack of response for something other than it is, though.

"Right, well, I won't impose on you any longer. Just—feel free to call me any time. I'll be glad to help—and I promise I won't be underfoot."

With that he turns to walk away, and no, she realises she doesn't want that.

"Robin, wait." He spins back around, not quite able to tamp down the hopeful expression her words elicit. Regina needs time. She needs just a bit more time to process the latest revelations and just where to go from here. "The—the coffee maker could use fixing up, if you don't mind."

He slips inside the moments she opens the door wider for him, and heads straight to the kitchen with a spring in his step that may or may not melt her heart a bit. He's fast and efficient, and instead of untangling her thoughts she catches herself watching him work, quite fascinated by the way his fingers work away at tiny components without the faintest hint of hesitation. He has deft fingers. Her mind definitely doesn't wander to other things he could do with them, and whether they would make her purr the way her coffee maker is now that Robin's finished with it.

"Maybe you're not so bad after all," she teases, her voice hoarse somehow, and what the hell is wrong with her? Hell, repair works should definitely not be so arousing.

"Why Madam Mayor, is that a compliment I hear?" he returns glibly. "There's not a single thing about me you didn't object to in that half hour on Miner's Day, and ever since then you've been—" He trails off, leaving the sentence hanging.

Oh yes, Miner's Day. They were flirting. Sassing each other, leading a prickly back and forth she rather enjoyed. And then, just as Regina had almost worked up the courage to even begin to consider there may be something there—

"You went home with—" Belle. He went home with Belle—but Belle is dating Ruby apparently, not Robin.

He lets out an _ah_ of comprehension, and Regina wants desperately to duck under the counter and never come up again.

"Jealous?" he asks, amusement dancing in his eyes as he bites down on that blasted smirk the way that makes her belly jolt pleasantly.

"You wish."

"As a matter of fact I do."

Oh. That's—oh. She'd be mad if this had all been a trick designed to make her jealous, but his surprise just a moment earlier was genuine. They're both staring now, eyes flickering across the other's features, sweeping gazes up and down their bodies, and perhaps the next thing she's going to need fixed is the heating, for it sure seems to have gone up by its own volition in the middle of summer.

They both take a rushed step forward at the same time, toes brushing, breaths mingling in a mix much headier than the smell of coffee wafting through her kitchen.

"I don't need to be fixed," she tells him as his hands hover mere inches over her waist. "I'm not another thing for you to mend."

"I quite agree. Regina, I wouldn't dream of changing a single thing about you. You're—" He hesitates, and Regina finds herself leaning forward, drawn to him, drinking in his words as a determined look settles on his face and a most astonishing brightness in his gaze, and he finishes with the slightest hitch in his voice. "Stunning, in every way."

He tastes like mint when she pulls him to her, fisting the lapels of his jacket and kissing his breath away as her head spins, as hearts quicken and small gasps fill the room. Robin's fingers weave through her hair, and Regina sighs against his lips. The floor seems to tilt under her feet just as something deep inside her comes to life again—a corner of her heart she'd locked away years ago now reawakened.

Somehow, she knows: they're going to work.

* * *

 _It's not a thing done at your average Storybrooke wedding, but Henry's inherited every bit of Regina's stubbornness, and Roland lacks none of his father's charm. It is hardly a surprise then nobody denies the brothers (in heart for a while and now, finally, as of two minutes ago, also on paper) this first mischief as new family._

 _Mr Mills and Mrs Locksley, as their parents have been referring to each other with hopelessly lovesick grins for weeks now, are positively beaming with happiness—and just a touch of wariness—as Roland runs forward with a large, very breakable, precariously balanced plate, and hands it to Henry gamely._

 _Never before has he seen his mom this radiant, nor have Robin's dimples seemed so deep._

 _Henry smiles at Mom, grins at Robin, gives Roland a conspiratorial nod as they bring the plate up over their heads before smashing it into a million particles scattering on the floor—countless shards of china not even a handyman of Robin's calibre could ever dream to put back together._

 _Broken glass brought them together; broken china bears witness to their happy beginning._

 _And maybe, Henry wonders, it's not about fixing someone's heart so much as it is about healing side by side._

 _Although when it comes to that first push setting up your mom and the handyman, sometimes you just gotta, well, do it yourself._


	4. Unique In All the World

_Prompt 89:_ _Just like she did with Henry when he was younger, Regina shows Roland how to garden, and he insists on having his own plant to take care of._

* * *

Life in the nap of nature has forged a unique bond between the little boy and the great outdoors, but gardening is a realm entirely unexplored. An outlaw's path doesn't exactly favour putting down roots at any one place-a basic requirement when it comes to raising plants.

Roland, however, is a fast learner, and enthusiastic beyond compare.

"But how can a _flower_ be tamed?" he giggled when Henry explained about his own special rose, grown and nurtured exclusively by him (except of course that loathsome time he'd been gone from home and Regina watered the plant with equal parts water and tears) since he was about Roland's age.

It only took one reading of their old, dog-eared copy of _The Little Prince_ for him to beg for his own plant.

Except Roland's flower of choice isn't a rose. It isn't even a violet, lily, or marigold, or any of the endless list of flowers Regina offers him. Nor do any of the wide selection of shrubs or trees spark any particular interest in him.

No-Roland's plant of choice is a dandelion.

It doesn't matter that they're considered a weed, or that for the first time after a decade-long war waged against the yellow nuisance there's finally not a single one to be found in Regina's garden. They unearths one specimen on the sidewalk two streets down, dig it up with utmost care, and plant it in a sunshine yellow pot much to Roland's delight.

And then they google.

Regina's desperate search for tips to keep her garden from being overrun turns up an unexpected amount of information on the various uses and benefits of the dandelion-even in a garden.

They plunge into experiments headfirst. Robin, it turns out, brews a delicious tea of the flowerheads, which the Merry Men used to collect in the wild. Thanks to his mischievous streak, the entire family spend most of the night queuing for the bathroom (Regina always thought the mansion had plenty, but now they're just not enough) because they underestimated the full force of its diuretic effects and Robin conveniently forgot to set them right. After the incident, Roland starts to gigglingly refer to his dandelion by one of its many alternate names, wet-a-bed. Regina in turn decides to forego the coffee-like beverage prepared from the plant's ground roots. Salads, on the other hand, have a roaring success especially after they learn to blanch the leaves before use.

By the end of the month, the garden boasts not one but five pots of dandelions.

"Regina," says Roland as they toil away side by side, turning the soil with miniature shovels, "I think my flower tamed you."

Regina wipes her brow and smiles as the precious boy pushes back his hair, leaving a brown smudge on his forehead that matches the one already painted across one dimpled cheek.

So perhaps raising dandelions is a little unorthodox, so what?

So is their little family-and still they wouldn't have it any other way.

"You know what, sweetheart?" She bops his nose affectionately. "I think _you_ did."


	5. Ink In Your Veins

_17\. Ink Heart AU. Whenever Regina reads a story out loud, characters come to life. She vows never to read out loud again. One day she comes home to find Robin Hood in her son's room. Henry confesses that he shares her strange gift._

 _Unedited because I'm on holidays with limited time and resources - apologies for any mistakes._

Regina Mills had vowed a decade ago to never use the gift she'd been cursed with ever again.

Ten years--to a dot. Ten years since her fiance died, all because of her and the power she wields. There would be no more victims.

Ten years since her little prince was born, and two weeks later he'd enter her life and change it forever. She's given him everything, poured into him all the love she had in the entirety of her battered and bruised heart. Everything but one thing.

She's never read him a story.

And now he finally knows why.

Regina looks from her son's startled face to the book in his lap, a well-loved copy of _The Adventures of Robin Hood,_ then to the man by the window with his bow drawn and arrow pointing in their general direction.

"Mom, I swear I didn't mean to," Henry blurts out, "I don't even know how it happened. He just--he just sort of appeared out of thin air!"

"I believe you, Henry."

He sighs in relief, hugging her back when she loops an arm around his shoulder. Thank god he's all right.

Then she turns to the archer, green-clad and frowning, his eyes like a stormy sky studying her with less hostility and more curiosity than he has a right to.

"Now if you would please just stop aiming that thing at my son," Regina says, "I will explain everything."

He doesn't take unkindly to the hint of bite in her voice, but lowers his bow an inch or two.

"Forgive me, milady--I've just been snatched from my tent and deposited in your home out of the blue. Surely you can understand my caution. But I promise I've no intention of harming your boy."

"Mister--Mister Hood," Henry chimes in, sliding off the bed and moving to stand beside Regina. "I'm sorry. I think I brought you here. I just don't know how."

This is it, then. Time for the truth to come out. She's not sure she's ready--but she also doesn't have much choice.

"Henry," she sighs, guiding him back to the bed and sinking down next to him because this might get long. "There's something I never told you."

So she tells him. About her gift and her curse, about how pages come to life to the mere sound of her voice, about how she could never partake of the simple pleasure of reading her little prince a bedtime story.

Their visitor remains at his spot by the window, his eyes alert and ever on her when she glances his way. By the time she's finished, he's lain down his weapon.

"And I have the same ability?" exclaims Henry, who's been listening with rapt attention. "This is so cool!"

Regina tries to keep a straight face despite the sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach. She can hardly begrudge Henry the excitement after all--she used to be the same. And it's led to horrible things.

"I know it is. But it's also dangerous. Robin Hood, well, he's a hero. But villains can come over too, and all sort of creatures. Your father--" They've always referred to Daniel that way, even though he'd died before the adoption was completed. "He got in the way of the Queen of Hearts, and it cost him his life."

She's never said those words out loud before. It breaks her heart in whole new ways to see Henry's face fall as it sinks in.

"Is that why you never told me?" He frowns. "About your gift? You didn't want to use it anymore?"

"Exactly. Now," she takes a generous gulp of air and smiles her encouragement. "Why don't you go ahead to the kitchen and make us all some hot chocolate? We'll be right there."

Henry regards her then their guest with narrowed eyes, and rises to pad out of his bedroom and downstairs. Soft clinking noises from down below fill the momentary silence.

"So I've been magicked here by your boy." Robin Hood shakes his head, breathing a small, incredulous chuckle. "I suppose it could've been worse."

"Could it?" The answer to that question, in Regina's experience, is always yes; but the man's cavalier attitude irks her. "Does this sort of thing happen to you often?"

"Not exactly, no." He seems to catch on to the tension seeping into her words, and mitigates the impact of his sarcasm-coated words with a half-smirk that tickles in her belly. "I'm more used to being hunted and betrayed left and right to the sheriff's lackeys. I thought at first this was his newest trick; but you've only treated me with kindness so far--and a thinly veiled threat when I potentially threatened your child, which I daresay was perfectly justified."

"You jump to conclusions rather quickly," she teases back in an effort to banish, or at least hide, her worries--especially if he doesn't share them. "One drink offer and you throw caution to the wind?"

He places a hand over his heart in a dramatic show, and who knew Robin Hood had an affinity for theatrics?

"Ah, but do you intend to administer poison? I beg you to reconsider--I'm a hero after all."

Regina rolls her eyes, secretly amused.

"And much too cocky for your own good. There goes my admiration for the Prince of Thieves. Oh how easily those pedestals crumble."

He laughs at that, warm and deep from his belly. He has a good laugh. It pulls a smile out of her in turn.

The smell of hot chocolate lures them downstairs to discuss the next steps.

"How about this then?" He takes a careful sip, eyes blowing wide as he hums his approval much to Henry's amusement. "Is this magical? Because if this sort of thing is common in your world, I am rather partial to it. No sheriff, no royal overlords, contraptions that do the work for you--I'd be tempted to stay if I didn't miss my boy to bits already."

"You're a father?" they echo together.

Robin smiles, bright and adoring.

"Does your book not mention that? His name is Roland, and he's been the light of my life for four years now."

Guilt churns in Regina's stomach. Other risks aside, a father and son have been separated, and it's all her fault. This wouldn't have happened if she'd only just told Henry the truth in the first place. But how could she have known they share these peculiar powers?

"We need to get you home."

"Or," Henry cuts in, bouncing in the chair, "maybe we could get Roland here instead! That way we get to meet him, and you won't miss him so much while we look for a way to fix this."

"Henry, I know how much you like Robin Hood, but this is not the time--and Roland isn't written into your book, I don't see how that would even work." But that's not entirely true--she'd done it before, written into the margins of pages in red ink and watched the words come to life just like the original text.

Unfortunately for her, Robin favours Henry's way.

"The young lad has a point, actually. Roland would be safer here, what with Nottingham loose in Sherwood and me not there to defend the camp."

Thud.

The air in the kitchen freezes.

A series of dull thuds and feet shuffling resonates from upstairs.

Someone is sneaking around the landing.

"Henry," Regina mutters as Robin makes a quick job of notching an arrow to his bow, "what story were you reading when Robin popped up? Was the sheriff of Nottingham in it?"

Henry nods.

"Get behind me," she whispers and grabs the baseball bat from the corner.

Robin Hood stands beside her, arrow at the ready, as the steps come ever closer. Regina grips the wood and exchanges a glance with the man whose presence, though very much part of the problem, oddly calms her erratically beating heart.

"An honour to fight alongside you, milady."

Despite the adrenalin coursing through her, her grin comes easily in response to his own.

"And you--thief."

The steps still just outside the kitchen door; the enemy is upon them.

 _Here we go, then._


	6. Afflictions Twofold

_11\. Regina mothering Roland (it'd be awesome if Robin witnessed at least a part of the scene)._

Roland is inconsolable when sick, demanding his father's constant presence and attention. No one else--not John, Tuck, or Will--will do.

Yet there he is now, in the arms of the great and terrible Evil Queen, his ragged breath rattling against her neck as she rocks him gently, rubbing languid circles into his back. She's covered in snot and vomit, the silvery grey of her nightgown hardly recognisable, her loose and tangled hair sticking to her forehead due to the combination of summer and body heat.

She doesn't seem to mind one bit.

Roland coughs, an awful thing painful even to the ear, and lets out a little whimper. He clings to Regina ever more, his arms draped over her like a vice; she hugs him back and coos softly in his ear. Robin wishes desperately he could make out just what it is she says from his post in the door, for Roland gives a pitiful little laugh, looking up at her like she's the sun and stars combined.

Then she starts to hum a little tune, a quiet melody that barely reaches Robin, and Roland burrows himself into her chest as her honeyed voice lulls him to sleep.

It's easily the most beautiful sight Robin has ever seen.

And Robin is well and truly fucked, isn't he? He's besotted with her--not unlike his son, currently seeking comfort in the dark locks he's combing his fingers through. Unlike his son, though, Regina doesn't give Robin the time of day.

She spots him now, at last, her eyes going wide as she takes in his mud-covered, bedraggled form freshly returned from a scouting mission.

"Thank you," he mouths so as not to wake the child.

Regina nods, not a barbed retort to spare as she presses a kiss to Roland's brow and is dragged to sleep herself after heaven only knows how many hours spent by his son's bedside.


	7. Unforeseen

_101\. Kissing in the rain. Set in the_ Unwritten _verse._

Their first date goes horribly wrong.

Robin has planned everything to the last dot--perfect time, perfect location, perfect everything for the woman he'd had a crush on for as long as he's known her. Only the best for Regina Mills.

Only the weather won't bend to his will, nor listen to his desperate wish to dissolve the steely clouds gathering over their heads, or the buffeting wind scattering their possessions, tearing down fairy lights,and lashing them with breakaway leaves. No--despite Robin's silent prayer to the heavens, the sky opens a bare half hour into their carefully assembled picnic, and pours its contents onto the world.

"I'm so sorry," he shouts over the raging elements, but Regina only grabs his hand and tugs at it.

They make for the car, feet squelching in the grass, soaked to the skin halfway--and then she stops in her tracks.

Robin grabs her by the hips to steady himself, another apology spilling from his lips. He can barely make out her face through the heavy rain when she pries his hands from her body and whips around.

Shit, this is a disaster. He fully expects a reprimand, laced with anger and disappointment, with regret that she'd ever given this a chance.

Heavy-hearted, he slips his hands from under hers, cringing at the boldness of his touch clearly unwelcome to her--but instead of letting go she grasps his fingers more firmly and places their joined hands on her hips again.

Robin blinks.

The mighty downpour eases to a light rainfall.

And Regina stays, weaving her fingers with his, the car quite forgotten.

Perhaps all is not lost after all.

"I wanted this to be special," he confesses miserably. "Cliche, I know; but you did tell me you enjoy my efforts to give those a fresh touch in my books."

Regina tilts her head at him, and the sheer beauty of her punches him right in the gut. Her dark locks are a mess sticking to her face and neck, her sundress clinging to her skin, and he swears she's never looked more beautiful.

"Oh Robin," she sighs, those chocolate browns swirling with emotion as they stare right into his bared soul. They always feel that way--magic, how naked he feels under them, how he doesn't in the slightest bit mind.

He only wishes he could read her now as thoroughly as she claims--half fascination, half caution--he can.

Wishes he could scrap this scene gone bad and write it anew, as many times as he needs to get it exactly right.

Regina's eyes are still boring into him, her tongue darting out to lick away the teardrop clinging to her lips. Lips he'd hoped to taste tonight, had things gone well. Which they haven't.

"I'm sor--"

But she won't let him finish his renewed apology. Her hands dart up to fist the lapels of his shirt, and instead of pushing him away she yanks him closer, their lips hovering a hair's breadth apart, the tips of their noses touching. She smells divine, a heady mix of perfume, damp earth, and _Regina_ , pressed up against him head to toe--and can he really be such a lucky bastard?

"This is perfect," she breathes, her words tickling his lips as thunder rumbles in the distance and a lonely sunbeam breaks through the clouds.

And then--they kiss. And kiss. And kiss. They revel in every coming together of their lips, every sigh as the sweet kiss deepens, and the matching little moans as their tongues slide gently together.

When their lips part with a soft pop, their foreheads come together instead, as if they couldn't bear an inch of distance between them.

They stand there, wrapped up in each other, as the rain caresses them.

Perfect, indeed.


End file.
